My Words
by SirKriS
Summary: Molly desperately needs Sherlock to hear her words. It was the only way they could move on. Warning: May experience sad feels. Songfic for 'Overjoyed' by Bastille.


**A/N: I normally put my sherlolly one-shots under the 'Sherlolly Conversations' fic but there isn't much dialogue between them in this story; at least not in the conventional way I usually have them to be.**

**The story is structured around the song. I think still makes sense without the lyrics but the music might set the tone of the story a bit better. It's optional to listen to it.**

**Okay I'll stop rambling. Enjoy! I hope...**

* * *

She knew almost immediately the moment he walked into Baker Street, his heavy steps trudging up the staircase to his flat where she waited for him. The door shut behind him quietly as he stepped into the room. Something akin to stomach-fluttering delight rose up when he saw the letter, although she wasn't so sure. After all, everything was so different. Things were different.

He was different.

She supposed it was to be expected. He wore a suit she had never seen before. The white dress shirt glaring against the black contrast of his . Having only ever deviated his wardrobe one other special occasion, she felt somewhat honoured.

She knew the letter was the reason she was there here. It was imperative that he read it, and most importantly, accept it. Her hands squeezed in response to his turning the envelope. She shut her eyes tightly, suddenly not feeling brave enough to take in his reaction. The envelope was ripped and it crinkled open. Silence stretched over as she waited to for the outcome, waiting to hear.

Nothing.

She heard nothing.

He was taking far too long to read it, or perhaps she missed it. She opened her eyes in confusion, not caring she may not be prepared to see what she did.  
He was staring.

No, not at her. How could he? All that mattered was the letter. But he wasn't reading it, not really. There was a difference. The words were meant to make a difference, but he wasn't reading them.

He was just, staring.

'Sherlock.'

It was too late. He was crumpling her letter into a meaningless ball. He spared no glance when it rolled across the living room. Like dust, it settled under his chair, and she feared it would never be recovered.

She turned back in time to see his form pass through the narrow hallway where the bedroom door slammed behind him, shutting everything out. He was shutting her words out, therefore shutting her as well.

She did all she could do at the time; she left.

* * *

"You haven't left in days."

John could tell the words fell on deaf ears. He hadn't turned around nor acknowledged his presence in any way since he set foot in the room. He looked around to take in the state of the place.

The flat was in perpetual chaos, more so than it had ever been before. Papers and clothes were strewn across the furniture and floor. Abandoned cups and plates littered every surface, the only indication that he ever ate.

Looking up he took what had become the Wall. No longer did it display the drawn smile or deliberate bullet holes. It was now plastered with pictures, news clippings and layers upon layer of indiscernible notes. Strings mapped out in ways only he understood. The photos were always of the same man, whose face was never captured but he knew would forever be ingrained into Sherlock's mind. The unforeseen enemy; His current obsession of source of all his anguish.

Sebastian Moran.

The man who murdered Molly.

"You can't keep ignoring us."

Sherlock was convinced that he had to do take on the manhunt alone, a decision no one was going to accept, especially his best friend.

"I know you're angry," he tried again. "We're all angry."

That still roused no reaction from him. It was frustrating.

"You're not the only one who's lost a friend so if you'd just let—"

"She was not my friend."

"—us help," his words pattered off. "What?" They were the first words he had uttered in days and they made no sense to him. A dark chuckled rumbled out and it took John a moment to realize it had come from the disheveled man before him. Sherlock had finally turned to face him, a humorless smile rising up to his lips.

"Did I tell you?" he croaked, voice heard from a lack of use. "She knew long before it happened."

John stilled at the sudden change. "How—" he began, but Sherlock was not listening. A new fervor was taking over as he paced back and forth.

"No physical indication to point to—an entire year—" He stopped again to glare at something by the chair. What exactly, John was not sure as he glanced quickly before reverting his gaze on him.

"She must have thought it inevitable."

The escalating tone alarmed him. He was talking, more than he had done in weeks, but it seemed more for his personal benefit, perhaps a means to refocus the thoughts. John listened, though he did not understand. That was all he could do for him at the moment.

"For him to single her out would mean that he knew." Sherlock shut his eyes to release a breath as he braced himself to say the next words. They would be painful.

"She was not my friend." He repeated, the last word trembling out of his chest. It sounded like it pained him to admit it, as if it was a heavy secret he never meant to come to light, let alone admit to himself.

Silence hung in the air along with the words before it. John took in what was not said, what could not be said, and suddenly it all made sense. Why he wouldn't talk to anyone about it, about her. Moriarty's words from the poolside surfaced to his mind.

'I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you.'

"Sherlock" he started, stopping once more when he realized he didn't know what to say next. Nothing from this point would come close to anything he had not already told himself. As if sensing the struggle, Sherlock's features reverted back to the calm and reserved character they all knew too well. The rational consulting detective now stood before him.

He turned his attention back to the Wall, withdrawing to his cause once more.

"I'll text you should I get any closer to finding him. If you can't wait then seek out my brother's cooperation. It's the least he should do."

John hesitated. He didn't want to leave him alone, not without trying.

"You know it's not your fault. Right?"

The door shut quietly behind John. Sherlock stared at the wall long after John had departed, and Mrs. Hudson had stopped by to replace the dishes. Only she knew he wasn't investigating. John's words had struck a chord in him, perhaps because they so closely echoed her own.

_'It has and never will be your fault. The decision is mine.'_

She resurfaced at his thoughts of her words. The longer she lingered, the more she realized he was still shutting her words out. His stubbornness was holding her down. But she could wait until he was willing to listen.

He had to accept it.

He pace across the room, consumed by the case once more. She sighed helplessly, as she watched over him, unable to talk to him.

* * *

Sleep was an inevitable state of being that he minimized to the bare necessity so his body wouldn't betray him. He didn't wish to sleep. Not because it needlessly consumed time he would rather dedicate to finding Moran. She was also there, in the form of preserved memory of his last moments with her.  
He watched her die every time. Each dream longer and more painful than before as his mind drew out the details surrounding her death. The guilt that followed after was the most difficult to handle, as it latched on to every conscious thought he had while awake.

He should have known.

However, despite the dread, he looked forward to the nightmare every session, for it was the only time he saw her. And when he felt brave enough, he would talk to her and and she would reply back. Then like every other time, he would wake up, all encounters forgotten. words forgotten. It was the only way he could allow himself to thinkonly recalling her voice but not her word, for it was too hard to heard her voice.

Nothing disarmed him like his subconscious. He saw the letter, but only enough to learn the truth, not the message she needed him to know so she could move on; so they could all move on.

An advantage of her existence was that she no longer harbored the barriers and insecurities that barred her from looking into the soul and uncovering all the mortal flesh tried so hard to hide.

She saw all intentions, much clearer than she ever could have in her life. She wondered if this is what it felt like to be Sherlock, except she didn't deduce using the physical. It just was, as if her plane connected her directly to the souls of the people around her.

She saw through all lies and facades as well. It was a glorious and a burden for it made it more difficult to move on. It was clear to her what she needed to do, what she needed him to do, but he wasn't letting her in. The letter was all she had but he wouldn't read it.

He didn't want to move on.

The closest she ever gets to him is through his dreams. That marvelous mind palace that encloses his existence, shapes his perspective, stores his life. But to him she was an illusion; the manifestation of his memories and wishful thinking. A trick he explained to himself. Her words were still lost to him.

He was so lost.

* * *

The case was finally closed. Resolved, but not in the way he would have preferred. He was never granted to satisfaction of murdering her, for he was already dead. He had been chasing a ghost all along. The mind that that in the past few weeks had been so occupied with finding him was now left with no direction, no outlet for all the resentment and wracking grief that was coursing through him. He wished more than anything he could shut it off, if only for a moment.  
He never was able to do it, not without the narcotics. But he swore never to touch them again. Even if she wasn't here he would keep that promise. Although this time the frustration could not be expelled through the clip of bullets he emptied on the wall. He just wanted quiet. He wanted to sleep. He needed closure, but he wouldn't read it.

"He died within a week after he murdered her."

He shut his eyes painfully, willing for a patience he no longer had to restrain his anger.

"It was his last means of revenge. He never intended to live to see outcome. His last chance to rid you of any satisfaction or vengeance."

"Mycroft get out before I end you."

"You mustn't let him win."

"Get out."

"She wouldn't want this."

"GET. OUT!"

A hushed silence followed as Mycroft calmly looked past the barrel pointed at him, noting the tremor in the hands. He sighed helplessly he looked ingot he tortured eyes of his brother. He had tried so hard to protect his from the throes of sentiment.

He turned towards the exit, turning once more to share one more piece of advice.

"Please read it."

* * *

Sherlock listened to the deafening silence for the rest of the day and well into the night. He didn't remember when he dropped the gun, or when he had crawled to the couch to seek out the letter, but as daylight broke he found himself clutching onto the letter, waiting for the light to reveal the words he had been avoiding for so long.

Mrs. Hudson didn't bring the tea that morning. No one bothered him that day, for that he was grateful. It wasn't until the last ray set back to the horizon that it all crashed over him.

Sherlock cried his heart out.

Molly watched over him as the sobs racked over him, reaching over to touch the head of curls she had rarely taken the liberty to feel under her fingers. He stilled when her hands brushed over him, and she felt the bewilderment that took over him when his mind recalled the only moment she had ever touched his hair.

"Molly?"

She smiled down at him as he turned around frantically, looking around for her. She knew he would explain this moment to unfettered grief, but in that instant she was overjoyed.

She could feel his built up tension falling away as he allowed himself to grief. He was finally on the path to acceptance. The assurance allowed her to leave, this time for good. She felt herself drift away from his existence, but she was not afraid, for she knew he would be all right.

* * *

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I delegated instructions for you to receive this letter should my suspicion come through. If you're reading this, then I must be dead._

_You won't accept this now, but knowing that he would come after me would not have changed anything else unless would have never changed anything, except compel him to go through our family someone else to get to me._

_Please understand, it has and never will be your fault. I will never regret ever knowing you._

_Let me to be selfish once more and ask that you move on. If you don't want to do it for yourself then at least for your friends and family. You are not alone, and through them you will find the way to overcome this. I will not downplay my significance as a friend. I know I matter you said so and I believe you. Please take my words to heart when I say you will be all right. It will get better._

_Thank you for sharing your heart. Know that because it can break, it most certainly will be able to heal._

_Love,_

_Molly_

* * *

**A/N****: I was really worried about publishing this story. I've been editing and re-editing it for weeks trying to avoid it. I guess it's probably because I've never taken on the topic of loss in my writing before. Anyway, I hope it wasn't too bad. Please review and tell me what you think :)**


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